Every Penny
by Flaignhan
Summary: He's a life saver-er.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Part one of two - second part hopefully posted tomorrow, or on New Year's Day. Based on a prompt sent by an anon on tumblr, though I've tweaked it just a bit.

* * *

 **Every Penny**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

She pulls the short straw.

Well, actually, it's a tongue press with one end snapped off, the wood splintered and jagged. A voice in her head whispers that she could probably use it as a weapon, if she _really_ wanted to get out of this.

"I'm sorry Molly," Meera says, clutching her own, whole, tongue press. She's trying not to look too triumphant, but Molly can hardly blame her.

"We'll bid for you," Esther says, nodding in an encouraging sort of way.

Molly's stomach churns. If she'd had time for a lunch break today, she might have been sick on the spot. As it is, there's not much to bring up, and she's safe, for the moment.

"It's for a good cause," Ali adds, which is all well and good of her to say when she's not making any sacrifices for said good cause.

"We won't make you draw a straw next year. One of us will do it instead." Esther is trying to look on the bright side, but even though it's a nice gesture, it's still far too far into the future for it to really count for much right now.

She won't even be able to call in sick. It's for _charity_.

"I'm going to die of embarrassment," Molly says at last, breaking her silence. "And then I'm going to come back and haunt every single one of you."

* * *

"You nearly ready?" she asks, standing in the doorway of the lab. She feels a bit self conscious in her dress, and she begrudges the surge in confidence she'd had last night when she'd rolled it neatly so she could fit it in her duffle bag. The _good cause_ aspect had swayed her just a little too much, and now the reality is here, all she can feel is the bile in her throat.

"Five minutes," he mumbles, readjusting the microscope.

"You said that ten minutes ago," she replies. She walks over to him, her low heels clicking on the floor in a way that her worn brogues do not. His brow contorts at the sound, and he sits up, turning around to get a look at her.

"Where are you going?" he demands.

"Work do," she says. "New Years thing." She tries to keep the information sparse, make it sound even more boring than it is to try and get him to lose interest, but his frown only deepens.

"New Year's eve is tomorrow," he says. "Why are you going out tonight?"

"Because people tend to have better things to do on _actual_ New Year's eve than hang out with their colleagues?" She laughs, but he doesn't look convinced. She's not even lying to him, but she still feels as though he's mentally dissecting every word she says, searching for the truth amongst the chaff.

"Why are you dressed up?" he asks, returning to his microscope. It's a relief to no longer be under his sharp gaze, but he's still digging.

"Because we're going out," she says. "People tend to look a bit smarter when they go out."

"Are you being auctioned?"

Molly lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging. He must have seen the poster in the staffroom.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sherlock says, glancing back at her before he changes his slides. "Isn't auctioning people slightly illegal?"

"It's just a charity thing," Molly says. She leans against the workbench and looks up to the ceiling, wondering how long she can loiter in the lab before it becomes bad manners. "Just to raise a few quid for the hospital."

"By taking money back from its employees," Sherlock retorts. "How charming."

"We raised enough to build a sensory room for the neurology ward last year," she says, defensiveness springing up from the pit of her stomach. "It's nice when it becomes something tangible."

Sherlock doesn't reply, but he switches his slide out for the first one again, zooming right in to take a good look.

"It's always a good laugh as well," she adds. She's trying to convince herself more than him, and she's not doing a very good job; her stomach is still twisting itself into knots, leaping about anxiously, unsettling her from head to toe.

"Except for when you're the one who's being auctioned."

He has a point.

"Well," she says with a shrug. "Everyone's got to do their bit."

"Compulsory auction of humans...yes, definitely sounding _very_ illegal."

She smiles, but it does nothing to ease her anxiety. She'd be willing to donate a couple of hundred quid just to get out of it, to sit in the darkened lab with Sherlock, enjoying the peace quiet and taking a moment to breathe during the busy festive season.

But that's not going to happen. And it wouldn't be fair to the others. She pulled the short straw, so she can't back out now. She won't be a bad sport.

"What are you working on?" she asks. He has a page of scribbled notes next to his microscope, but it's written in a short hand that she can just about decode given a few minutes. At a glance, it's gobbledegook, and she suspects that's just the way he likes it.

"Just a little passion project," he murmurs. "Nothing life or death." He's thoroughly engrossed, and she can't bring herself to drag him out of the lab now. She reaches into her coat pocket, closes her hand around her keys, and then sets them on the bench next to him.

"Lock up when you're finished, all right?" she says. "And drop them off when you're done."

He pulls himself away from the microscope, looks at the keys, then raises his gaze to Molly.

"Thanks," he says, and there's a slight change in his tone. She's never let him roam free in the lab before, has always waited around until he's finished, or until her patience has worn too thin.

"I need them back tonight," she tells him. "I'm on the morning shift tomorrow. Don't forget."

"Where will you be?" he asks. His hand closes around the set of keys and he drops them into his inside breast pocket. "I'll only be another hour or so."

She had hoped he would have gone via her flat on the way home, would have let himself in and deposited the keys on the kitchen counter, helped himself to something from the fridge, before heading back to Baker Street. She doesn't need him to see her hammered and auctioned -she fully intends to down at least five Sambuca shots before she steps onto the stage.

She needs to get a move on if she wants to pace herself responsibly, if there _is_ a responsible way to do such a thing.

"West Smithfield," she tells him. "There's a pub on the roundy bit."

He considers the information for a moment, then says, "Near Carluccio's?"

Molly nods. "Yeah, that's the one." He's better than Google maps, sometimes. "I'll see you later," she says. "Don't forget the - "

"Top lock. I know."

"All right," she says, and she pushes herself away from the workbench, and forces her feet to move her towards the door. The sooner she goes, the sooner she'll be drunk, and the sooner it'll fly by.

"You look nice by the way," he says.

Molly pauses and looks back at him, though he is hunched over his microscope. For all she knows, the words could be directed towards his slide.

"I think you'll fetch a decent price."

She laughs, and looks down at her feet; already there's a dull ache from the minor incline that her heels have forced her into. "Are you just saying that because I gave you my keys?"

"Probably," he replies. She can hear the teasing edge to his voice, the slight change in tone that tells her his lips are curved at the edges. "Have fun."

Molly thinks that she'll be lucky to get within a mile of fun this evening, but she drops the blind on the pane of glass in the door, steps outside, and closes the door behind her.

Her legs feel like jelly as she walks into the pub, and her skin instantly prickles at the heat coming from so many bodies packed into the same space. A high pitched whistle catches her attention, and she looks across the room to see Meera waving her over.

Molly slips off her coat and negotiates her way through the tables with too many chairs crowded round them, uttering her hellos when she sees familiar faces.

She slumps onto the bench next to Ali, who takes her coat and shoves it in the corner with the others.

"We thought you weren't coming!" she says, her rosy cheeks most likely connected to the discarded tonic bottles, which had, in life, been paired with copious amounts of gin.

"Well I made it," Molly replies, eyeing the stage where she'll have to stand once everyone is drunk enough to open their wallets and have a good laugh.

Esther arrives back at the table with a tray full of drinks - a tall gin and tonic for Ali, a glass of white for Meera, a vodka and coke for herself, and six shot glasses filled with clear liquid, which she lines up in front of Molly.

"Don't you think that's a bit excessive?" Molly asks, eyeing them up suspiciously.

"Beamish is here," Esther mutters. "I think you're going to need them."

"Or I can just leave," Molly says, and she goes to stand up, but is hauled back into her seat by Ali.

"They've decided to start saving for a new MRI scanner," she says. "So we'll need every single penny we can scrounge out of people, _including_ Beamish."

Molly sighs, and tries to focus on the fact that this time next year, it'll be her sitting at a table and laughing at the misfortune of whoever else is up for auction. The year after that, when her carte blanche expires, she can volunteer for the night shift, and be oh so terribly disappointed that she is unable to take part in this drunken circus.

"Come on," Esther says. "Just get these down your neck. Bang bang bang."

"Don't you mean bang bang, bang bang, bang bang?" Molly asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, only if you want to be pedantic about it," she replies with a roll of her eyes.

"I think when it's six shots of Sambuca, I _do_ want to be a bit pedantic, yeah," Molly shoots back.

Esther smirks and takes a sip of her drink, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks on the straw. Molly releases a sigh, knowing that there's only one way to get through the evening ahead.

She picks up the first shot, and it's gone within seconds, the alcohol burning her throat, the sticky, aniseed flavour clinging to the inside of her mouth. She knocks back the second shot, which earns a whoop from Meera, who has put down her wine glass to focus on Molly's assault on her liver. She blurs her way through the third and fourth ones, and pauses before the fifth, before steeling herself and sending that one on its way too. She's feeling a bit queasy by the time she reaches for number six, and her mouth feels numb, lips tacky from the syrupy liquid. Her stomach gurgles, and she wonders if she'll get let off if she throws up all over the table.

The sixth shot disappears, and the empty glass slams back down on the table. Molly slumps against the wall, her arms folded over her stomach.

Meera rubs her forearm in reassurance, and takes a measured sip of her wine as Molly's head starts to cloud. She can feel the alcohol behind her eyes, and it's as though she is operating in slow motion while the rest of the world is whirring ahead at full speed.

Maybe she should have had something more substantial for lunch than a bag of Discos.

"Can you get me some cashew nuts?" She jabs Ali in the side, who takes one look at her, then heads up to the bar, returning a few minutes later with an armful of snacks.

Molly flicks the pork scratchings towards Esther, who opens them up and starts munching away, while Molly begins to slowly make her way through three types of nuts, a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, and a bowl of olives. By the time she finishes, Gordon is getting up on stage, microphone in hand, ready to start the auction.

"All right everyone, thanks for coming this evening," says, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead when there is a screech of feedback from the tannoy. "As you all know, this government is made up of absolute _bastards_ \- " There is a hearty cheer at this statement. "And as a result we need to try and raise our own funds. This auction, now in its eighth year, has raised nearly a hundred thousand pounds to date." Another cheers fills the room, and Gordon pauses for a moment to allow the merriment to subside. "I think we should start off by giving all of our lots for this evening a big round of applause..."

Molly presses her hands to her face as the room erupts into a cacophony of clapping and whistles and foot stamping. There's still time for her to duck out.

"And for those of you who have escaped that particular horror, the least you can do is chuck in a few bids, or throw some coins into the buckets by the door at the end of the night."

Another cheer erupts across the crowd, but Molly can't for the life of her work out what the reason for it is.

"We're going to start tonight's proceedings with Simon," Gordon continues, and a middle aged, suited man who will undoubtedly be taking early retirement before another one of these rolls around steps up onto the stage. He gives a jovial wave, and there are a few scattered whoops throughout the crowd.

"He's the smooth talking ENT consultant with the red Porsche, and I'm assured that his choice of vehicle has nothing to do with a midlife crisis..."

The crowd reward Gordon with a decent chuckle, and Simon shakes his head with good humour, playing along with the banter.

"Any bidders for Simon?" Gordon asks. "Let's get ourselves warmed up with a decent bid - that MRI won't buy itself ladies and gents."

"I'll give you a quid," one of the nurses shouts out, and the rest of her group cackles loudly.

"Better than nothing!" Simon says cheerfully.

The bidding continues, and in the end, one of the administrators coughs up ninety pounds.

"Excellent stuff, excellent stuff," Gordon says. "A very generous start from Marjorie there."

By the time Molly's turn rolls around, most of the candidates are fetching a price around the one fifty mark. Even the newer staff are doing all right, with some compassionate soul drudging up some cash to save them from any embarrassment.

"And now," Gordon says, and Molly's legs tremble as she steps up onto the stage. "We've got Molly, the drop _dead_ gorgeous pathologist from downstairs! She's made the effort to come up and join the land of the living tonight, so how about starting at a round hundred? Anybody?"

"Yeah!"

Molly's stomach lurches as she recognises Beamish's voice. She squints into the crowd, but she can't pick him out. She's sure he's somewhere towards the loos, but the lights on the stage are too bright.

"One fifty!" Esther yells, and Molly hears the clatter of coins on the table. She can't help but laugh, and everyone else laughs too.

She has the sympathy vote it seems. Maybe there'll be a way out after all.

"Two hundred!" Beamish yells, his voice cracking as he tries to make himself heard.

Gordon glances across to Molly.

"Two...twenty!" Meera calls.

"Two twenty," Gordon repeats, then continues quickly, "Going once, going twice - "

"Two fifty!"

Molly's stomach plummets. She has the feeling that Beamish may have been saving up all year for this night. She has a good mind to call the whole thing off, good cause be damned.

"Two six five!" It's Esther again, but the increments are getting smaller and smaller. Beamish will outbid them any second now.

"Five hundred!" He sounds triumphant, and she can picture the smug look on his oily face, can picture him puffing out his chest, like he thinks he's really something.

"Sorry Molls," comes the call from her table, and it's followed by a sympathetic chuckle.

"We'll buy you shots instead!"

There's more laughter at this, but Molly doesn't share in the humour. Beamish is on a lower grade than she is; he has a small flat with a big mortgage. For him to just chuck five hundred pounds around like it's nothing is...well, frankly it's a bit too much.

"Six hundred," she says, and she looks to Gordon. "Six hundred, for myself."

The corner of his mouth curves. "Six hundred to Miss Hooper! Going once - "

"Seven hundred!" Beamish shouts, rushing forward with a clattering of chairs. "And that's breaking the rules! She can't bid on herself."

"It's the twenty-first century, Beamish, Dr Hooper can do as she pleases."

Molly feels a wave of relief wash over her. Whatever the cost, she'll dig the money out of her savings account. Although, she wouldn't put it past Gordon to call it two hundred on the sly and be done with it.

"Seven hundred," Beamish says again, scowling at Gordon, his lower lip shiny with spittle.

"Eight hundred," Molly says, shrugging. There's a cheer at this, and she's not sure whether she's won them over with her bending of the rules, or whether they all just can't stand Beamish. Perhaps seeing him not get what he wants will be the cherry to top all of their evenings.

"Nine _hundred_ ," he snaps, and he's glaring at Molly now too. If he's that angry with her, why on Earth should he want to spend nine hundred pounds on a few hours of her company?

"One thousand."

Beamish looks towards the door, his displeasure deepening. The new bid has come from a different voice, one that Molly recognises, one that washes away every ounce of anxiety.

A grin spreads across her face, and she thinks she can see him, leaning against the door jamb, casually watching proceedings unfold.

"He doesn't work here," Beamish complains. "That's the detective, he doesn't work for the NHS. He can't bid!"

"Auctioneer, do you want my money or not? One thousand pounds, take it or leave it."

"Well..." Gordon says, his tone casual. "I see him around the hospital all the time, so yes, Beamish, his bids _do_ count."

Molly wants to send a smile of gratitude in Gordon's direction, but she cannot tear her eyes away from Sherlock's silhouette. She has no idea if he realises what a life saver he's being right now, but she'll give him as many livers as he likes for the next year. She'll cut him a set of keys for the lab. She'll give him first access to all her autopsy reports. She'll do _anything_ he wants in return, just so long as he gets her out of this mess.

"Twelve hundred," Beamish says quietly. "I'll do twelve hundred."

"Twelve hundred?" Gordon says, looking towards Sherlock. Through the flare of the lights, Molly can see a hundred heads turn to look at him, the silence heavy with anticipation as they await his answer.

"Two thousand," he says, and Molly can just about make out a shrug of his left shoulder.

Beamish splutters, his face turning an apoplectic shade of red. "Two and a half!"

"Five." Sherlock sounds bored now. Molly can picture the roll of his eyes. Nevertheless, his bid results in a sharp intake of breath from the rest of the room, with Gordon muttering a quiet _Jesus Christ_ just out of range of the microphone.

" _Six_." Beamish is sweating now, his lower lip trembling with indignation.

"Are you _really_ going to remortgage your flat for this?" Sherlock sighs, stepping forward into the light. "Ten thousand pounds," he says to Gordon, and he takes his phone from his pocket, brandishing it in his hand. "And I'll do a bank transfer immediately."

Gordon opens and closes his mouth a few times, while the colour vanishes completely from Beamish's face.

"Sold, to the rich detective!" Gordon calls out, and the room erupts with cheers, while Beamish slinks back to the bar, a dark glower clouding his features.

Sherlock approaches the stage and holds out a hand to help Molly down to the floor. She wobbles a bit, but his grip is firm, and she manages to escape the stage without going arse over head. Her steps are uneven as he leads her back towards the door, away from prying eyes.

"Thank you," Molly says, swaying a little as she tries to remain upright. The Sambuca is well and truly in her bloodstream now. Sherlock takes her by the shoulder, steadying her, and Molly rises onto her tiptoes to press a kiss against his cheek. "You're a life saver-er," she says, holding his gaze for a minute before she feels her balance going, and drops back down onto her heels.

"I've got your keys," Sherlock says, and Molly lets out a hushed laugh, bowing her head forward, her hair brushing against the fabric of his coat. If he wants to just move past the fact that he's pulled ten thousand pounds out of the bag to save her from a dreary few hours with Beamish, then so be it. She won't bite the hand that feeds.

Her laughter fades as her stomach churns, and then gives an unpleasant lurch.

"I think I'm gonna be sick."

Before she knows it, she's in the bathroom, and Sherlock shoulders open one of the doors, just in time for Molly to empty her stomach into the toilet bowl, the contents splashing against the porcelain. He holds back her hair, just before the second wave hits her, but she doesn't have time to be embarrassed about the awful retching noises issuing from her. Her throat burns, and the mixture of Sambuca and bile clings to her lips, trailing in a long drip before she wipes it away with her hand. She looks down, and sees the mulch of half digested nuts, and mushy salt and vinegar crisps.

"What the hell have you been drinking?" Sherlock asks. He grabs a wad of tissue from the dispenser and passes it to her. She wipes her mouth and closes her eyes, trying to calm her body down. After half a minute or so, she reaches out, and Sherlock pulls her up, allowing her to lean against him while she waits for her head to stop spinning.

He leans across and pulls the chain, and the evidence of Molly's desperation disappears in a whirlpool.

"D'you want me to take you home?" His voice is soft and gentle, and he puts an arm around her as he leads her from the cubicle and out to the sinks.

"I think I'll be all right," she says, and she pulls a face. The horrible, acidic taste lingers in her throat, and her tongue is gritty from remnants of peanut. She washes her hands first, then leans over the sink and splashes cold water over her face. She cups some in her hands and rinses her mouth out, and repeats this a few more times until she can no longer taste the sickly heat at the back of her throat.

Sherlock hands her a paper towel, and she pats her face dry, careful not to smear her make up. Sobriety hits her like a ton of bricks, reality settling in.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice croaky, throat sore. "That was a bit more than you signed up for, wasn't it?"

Sherlock shrugs. "It happens to the best of us."

A small smile tugs at her lips as she casts her mind back to the picture message Greg had sent her - Sherlock and John, sleeping off the stag night in a cell - with half a dozen crying laughing emojis tagged underneath it for good measure.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" he asks, looking her up and down, likely calculating how many steps she'll be able to take before she trips up and makes an idiot of herself.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," she replies. "Worst is over now."

Sherlock smiles briefly, and extracts Molly's keys from his pocket. He places them in her hand, and closes her fingers around them.

"Put these in your bag," he says. "I'd better go and settle up."

Molly nods, and folds her arms, the ends of her keys digging into her flesh.

"I'll see you in the morning," he tells her, and he takes one last look at her before he turns on his heel and sweeps from the bathroom. "Text me when you get home," he calls over his shoulder, and Molly smiles.

"Will do," she says, ignoring the little leap in her chest that is now habit for her, whenever he makes that particular request.

She spends another few minutes leaning against the tiles, enjoying the chilly breeze filtering in through the small crack in the window.

Once she's certain she won't be sick again, and certain that she'll be able to navigate the narrow gaps between the tables, she heads out to join the others once more.

She's in a much better mood for the rest of the night, though she stubbornly sticks to the ginger ale, despite Esther's best efforts.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Part two, a little later than planned, but yesterday left me FUBAR'd. Sigh.

* * *

 **Every Penny**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

Although she sticks to ginger ale, and although she has a hot shower before she goes to bed, when Molly wakes in the morning, she feels like she's been hit by a train.

In truth, it had been a good night, but only salvaged by Sherlock's intervention. Without that, it would have been a disaster.

She checks her phone, to ensure she made good on her promise to text him when she got home, and instead of the word 'home' followed by a couple of kisses, she finds a selfie, in which she is sprawled on her bed in her polka dot pyjamas, hair wet and tangly and splayed over the bedsheets. Her face is half hidden by the duvet, and she's squinting up at the camera, concentrating hard on taking the photo.

She scrolls down to his response, sent shortly after, at 1.53am.

 _Well done_

Molly groans and rolls out of bed, her feet landing on the floorboards with a little more force than intended.

She muddles her way through her morning routine, and nearly falls asleep while she's brushing her teeth, leaning heavily against the sink, toothbrush dangling from her mouth.

She's feeling slightly better by the time she makes it to Bart's, but she eases herself in, spending her first hour in the office with Mike, while they both quietly catch up on paperwork and try to ignore their hangovers.

Once she feels she can stomach her first examination of the day, it's nearly ten o'clock. Just as she's about to begin, the door to the morgue opens and she turns around.

"Morning," Sherlock says, lingering by the door, a paper cup of coffee in his hand.

"Morning," Molly replies, trying not to feel too sheepish. She's certain that there is a blush, creeping its way up her neck, past the neckline of her gown, betraying her.

"Hope your admirer wasn't _too_ put out," he says, and then he frowns, before adding, "Although if you're going to throw six thousand pounds at a few hours with someone then I think that verges on stalking. Sort of."

"So what does ten thousand equate to?" Molly asks, unable to ignore the bait. For the first time this morning, something that feels like a grin creeps its way onto her lips.

"A chivalrous gesture, naturally," Sherlock replies, his voice too casual for her to take him at face value.

"It's an awful lot of money though," she says, and though she feels awkward discussing it, she can't let it go without addressing it.

"Worth every penny, I'm sure."

Her stomach does that funny little lurch, not the nauseating one, but the one that reappears on those rare occasions when he's feeling particularly generous of spirit. Those rare occasions when he's nice, without it being remotely beneficial to himself. She often feels like he's still cautiously navigating conversations with her, as though he doesn't quite have her pinned down in the way that he has others.

"Besides," he continues briskly. "We'll call it Mycroft's treat."

Molly's bubble bursts with little mercy. " _Mycroft's_?"

"Mm," Sherlock says, nodding. His mouth is curved into a mischievous smile. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

"He doesn't _know_?" Her horror at the reality behind last night's _chivalrous gesture_ is spiralling out of control. "Sherlock that's _stealing_."

Sherlock shrugs. "I've spent _much_ more than that before, he won't miss it." He is completely and utterly blasé about the whole thing, and she can't work out whether it's a front.

Molly opens her mouth to argue, but he doesn't give her the chance.

"It's for a _good cause_ , Molly. And I can always tell him you were being held ransom by a pervert." He's impatient now, wanting to skim over the matter of his theft, as though it's a mere piece of scenery on a journey to somewhere else.

Molly lets out a heavy sigh. He is utterly impossible.

Sherlock reaches towards the bench nearest the door and sets another paper cup down next on it. "Lemon and ginger," he says. "Should help settle any lasting effects from yesterday."

Her smile is involuntary, but it swells up from somewhere around the base of her throat. Her brain is still fully under her control, however, capable of rational thought.

"Mike was heading up to the lab," she tells him. "Should be unlocked by the time you get there."

"Excellent," he says, his hair fluttering as he gives a firm nod. "Are you sure you should be wielding a scalpel this soon after - ?"

"Yes," she replies, holding his gaze until he looks away. "I didn't keep it all in, after all."

He quirks his head to one side, conceding her point.

"Besides, what's the worst that'll happen?" she says, suppressing a grin. "He's already dead."

He gives her a look, which is the same look he gives her every time he refuses to laugh at one of her jokes. She's come to substitute it with the sound of laughter in her head; the colder the gaze, the louder the laugh, at least in her book.

"This auction," he says, changing tact. His brow furrows as he considers the situation. "Are you contractually obliged to spend New Year's eve with your bidder?" He looks towards her, but after a few seconds looks away, preferring to turn his attention to the cold chambers instead.

"Well, I think it would be ungracious to refuse," Molly replies slowly. She's not fast enough this morning to get to the core of what he really wants (beyond lab access) and the slower she addresses his question, the more time she gives herself to craft a response.

"But you don't have to?"

Ah.

"Not if you don't want me to," Molly replies, turning back towards her patient and running her eyes over his records once more for good measure.

She's not absorbing a single word.

"No, _no_ , that's not what I meant," Sherlock says, words rushing out of him. "I just mean you don't have to, if there's a party or something you'd rather go to. I don't know." He shrugs, then looks around the room at the bare walls, eyes lingering for just a moment on the cold chambers.

The lid of his cup gurgles as he takes a long draught of coffee, and Molly sets down her file, then turns back to face him.

"No, I don't have any plans tonight, if that's what you're getting at," she tells him. "I'd kept it free because of the auction." Her teeth catch against her lower lip, and she looks down at the linoleum floor, the swishing patterns of this morning's mop heads still visible under the light.

"Well, you're free to do as you please," Sherlock says, and he disappears, the door swinging shut behind him.

Molly skews her lips back to one side, reminds herself not to expect anything from a man who refuses to laugh at her jokes.

She picks up her scalpel again, releases a breath, allowing her body to relax. She clears her mind of all thoughts of him, of the muggy memories of last night, and the ten thousand pounds which is no longer residing in Mycroft's bank account.

She rests her scalpel blade against the pale skin of her patient's chest.

But then the door hinges creak.

"You can come to mine if you like." He blurts it out before she has a chance to turn around, and Molly places her scalpel back in her tray.

She'd be cross with him, were it not for the fact that this sounds like an invitation to celebrate New Year with him.

"Are you having a thing?" Molly asks.

His face contorts. He's baffled.

"A party? Is everyone else going to be there?"

"Oh," he says. "No. I think John and Mary are staying home because apparently that's what parents do... Quiet night in, or something." He's lost in thought, but then he comes back to himself, his eyebrows raising for a brief moment, before he turns his attention back to Molly. He's waiting for an answer.

"Yeah, all right," she says, impulse shoving her towards his offer.

He looks surprised. She half wonders if he was only inviting her to be polite, if there's some weird thought process going on inside that head that has convinced him to offer her an alternative to an evening alone.

"All right," he says. "I'll probably be here all day so..." he shrugs his shoulders. "We can go once you...finish? Pick up some food on the way home?"

Everything he says is uncertain, and it's a new experience for Molly. She's so used to being the one stumbling over her words, trying to phrase carefully to avoid anything being misconstrued.

She wonders if he's been a bit lonely over the holidays, with nobody to talk at.

"You're eating today then," she says.

"Not much on at the moment. You know how it is, all suicides, no murders this time of year."

Lonely and _bored_ , then.

"I'll see you up in the lab later," she tells him. He nods, and Molly sends him a smile, before she turns back to the corpse on her slab, to finally start some proper work.

"I liked your _selfie_ , by the way."

She smiles as she cuts the Y incision, and the creak of hinges and subsequent thunk of the door tells her he's finally heading up to the lab.

* * *

She steps out of the hospital for the last time this year, and she breathes in the fresh air. Sherlock is already at the bottom of the steps, and when he realises that she's not at his side, he turns around.

"What?" he asks.

Molly smiles. "No more work until next year," she says. Even though there are only four hours of the year left, she can't keep her grin at bay. Even Sherlock lets a small smile sneak its way onto his lips.

"Come on," he says, and he nods towards the road. Molly trots down the steps and they cut through the ambulance station. "Are you working tomorrow?" he asks, glancing towards her as they squeeze through the gap between two closely parked ambulances.

"Absolutely not," Molly replies. "Wash your mouth out."

"Sorry," he says, but then he stops in his tracks, and Molly crashes into the back of him.

"What are _you_ doing here? Creeping about? Planning to throw yourself off the roof again?"

Molly sighs loudly. She recognises the voice. It's the last thing she wanted to hear.

"Just going on my New Year's eve date, actually," Sherlock replies, thoroughly unfazed by the sudden appearance of Beamish. He steps forward, beyond the narrow alley created by the two ambulances, and then steps aside so Molly can come up onto the pavement.

Beamish is the sorest loser she's ever seen, and his breathing gets heavier, and sulkier at the sight of her.

"And what do you expect you'll be getting for your ten thousand pounds, _Mr_ Holmes?" Beamish demands. Molly wonders if he's emphasised the 'Mr' in order to make a point about Sherlock not being a doctor, but all things considered, anyone would agree that Sherlock has the upper hand when compared to Beamish.

Except for maybe the drugs. She doesn't think Beamish is a recovering heroin addict. She wonders vaguely if rehab for idiots exists, but then realises that Sherlock is talking, and she does _not_ need this to escalate.

"You realise that last night wasn't _actually_ a slave auction, don't you?" he says, stepping forward and towering over Beamish. "You realise that people were just doing it for a laugh, and to raise some money for charity, don't you? No one was actually bidding to have control over another human being."

"And yet here she is," Beamish sneers. "You paid for her, and now you have her."

Molly cannot believe what she's hearing, and she's about to step in, but of course, Sherlock gets there first.

"Didn't pay for her when she spent Christmas at my place," he says casually. "Haven't paid for the _hundreds_ of hours we've spent together, both inside Bart's and out."

Beamish's expression falters, and Molly thinks he might be sick.

"She was always going to spend New Year with me," Sherlock says softly, and then he smiles. It's a smile that Molly has only seen a few times, a smile that says 'leave, _now_ '.

"Enough now," Molly murmurs, and Sherlock straightens up, moves Beamish aside with a firm sweep of his forearm, and goes to the kerb to hail a taxi.

"You need to stop obsessing over people," Molly says to Beamish. "It's really creepy and nobody likes it."

"I don't _obsess_ \- "

"Six thousand pounds is _obsessive_ ," Molly replies, desperately trying to get the message across to him.

"And ten isn't?"

"He put in that bid to _save me_ from _you_ ," Molly tells him. She looks him dead in the eye but he withers under her gaze, and busies himself by staring instead at the number plate of the nearest ambulance.

"Goodnight Beamish," Molly sighs.

He doesn't look at her, and she heads towards Sherlock, who's waiting with a taxi, door open to allow her to climb inside first.

"Hasn't he gotten himself fired yet?" Sherlock asks, once they're on their way.

"No," Molly replies. "He's not really done anything that would stand up in a tribunal." She looks out of the back window to see him lighting up a cigarette as a gentle patter of rain begins to leave blotchy spots on the paving slabs. "I just think he's been alone for too long."

"Sympathetic Molly strikes again," Sherlock mutters.

Molly pulls her gaze away from the window and narrows her eyes at him. He's only teasing, but she won't let it slide.

"Says the man who spends his whole life pretending he doesn't have a soul."

The corner of his mouth curves upwards.

"Touché."

* * *

They jump out at the Bengal Passage, and hurry across the pavement, ducking inside to get out of the rain as quickly as possible. They make their way towards the back, near the bar, and Sherlock splays the menu out on the counter, Molly runs her eyes over it, scanning the starters, then skipping across to the biryanis, biting her lower lip while she tries to make up her mind.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, looking up towards him as he frowns down at the menu. There are tiny water droplets sitting on the sleeve of his coat, glinting in the warm light of the restaurant.

"Dealer's choice?" he asks, his eyes meeting hers, eyebrow quirking as Molly considers the idea.

"Yeah, all right," she says with a shrug. "Why not?"

One of the waiters ushers her over to a table while Sherlock makes the order. He joins her a minute or so later, and as soon as he sits down, another waiter brings over a large bottle of Tiger, which he splits between two glasses, then rushes off to collect some empty plates from a nearby table.

"This is a bit of a departure for you," Molly says as Sherlock takes a sip of his beer.

He frowns and sets his glass down on the table, the condensation dripping down the side of the glass and dampening the table cloth.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he says. "I'm not a fussy eater."

"No, you're not," Molly agrees. "But I can't remember the last time I saw you use two hands to eat something."

His frown deepens, and Molly wonders if his eating habits are an unconscious quirk as opposed to a deliberate attempt at efficiency.

"You always have something like chips, or pizza, or whatever's at the front of the fridge..." She tries some of her beer now, keeping her eyes fixed on him as he processes her words.

"I eat Chinese quite a lot," he argues.

"Yeah," Molly replies. "And you always have your chopsticks in your left hand and your phone in the other. When was the last time you used a knife _and_ fork?"

He opens his mouth, as if to counter, but he's got nothing, and so he goes for his beer instead, taking a long draught, while Molly taps her index fingers against the edges of her glass.

"I don't know," he says after moment, heaving a sigh. "I spend ten thousand pounds - "

"Of someone else's money - "

"And now I have to account for my eating habits for the past ten years."

"I'm just teasing," she says, pursing her lips as she tries to hide her smile. He knows, and she knows he knows, but nevertheless his gaze softens at her words.

"Well," he says. "It's quiet this time of year, so I suppose I can spare both hands. For you."

"For me?" she asks, and she can't stop her smile this time.

He hums in response, then adds, "If it's such a rare treat for you to see me use cutlery..."

"Don't make this into a thing," she says, but Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, playing dumb. She's opened a whole can of worms, just from one silly observation, just because she'd spotted something he'd never seen in himself. He doesn't like it when people unravel him, no matter how trivial his habits.

"How long till the food's ready?" she asks, steering the subject away from his multitasking.

"They said about ten or fifteen minutes," he says, and he prods the home button on his phone, the screen illuminating so he can see the time. "Be about another five, I think."

Molly nods, and plays with the tassels on the end of her scarf, trying to ignore her rumbling belly. She'd had a light lunch on purpose, but that was at half past one, and it feels like a lifetime ago now.

"Well, if they put it into two bags, I'll be sure to use both hands to carry it."

He laughs at his own joke, but Molly manages to maintain a stony silence, for which she is forever grateful.

He's not letting it go.

* * *

She's stuffed, and she's not sure she can move from her seat. Sherlock too has given up, his arms folded across his stomach, shards of poppadom abandoned on his plate next to smears of mango chutney.

They've made a decent effort though, and Sherlock's request for a mix of specials, enough for two, was met with ample food for three.

She doesn't want to see another grain of rice for at least a week.

She questions him about his passion project, but his responses are tired and distracted. It doesn't stop him from stripping all the knowledge out of her brain however, and after an hour, she's spent more time thinking about oxygenated and deoxygenated blood spatters than she has at any point in her career.

She's not sure what possible relevance it could have in a case, but she supposes it's a nice little brainteaser to tide him over the festive period.

Maybe she should send some kidneys his way and get him to identify their owners, a nice little puzzle for him to get his head around. He should be back on track after the bank holiday though, so maybe he'll cope until then. Just the final stretch now.

"I can't move," Sherlock says. He's slid down in his seat, his spine curved, the base of his skull resting against the wooden back of the chair. "I don't think I'll ever walk again."

"Don't worry," Molly says, exhaling a long, slow breath, in the hope that her fullness will dissipate if she breathes steadily enough. "I'll roll you into the lab."

He lets out a snort of laughter, and he must be tired, because he rarely lets his guard drop like that. She wants to make a comparison to Violet Beauregard, from _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ , but she knows it will zoom straight over his head and he'll look at her blankly, expecting a punchline that has already been and gone. She can't even be bothered to find a video on Youtube to illustrate the point.

As midnight ticks nearer, they force themselves out of their seats, and slowly start to clean up. Molly has never seen someone stack a dishwasher more slowly than Sherlock, and frankly, she's surprised he even knows that the one in his kitchen exists.

The remaining food lands at the bottom of the bin with a series of thuds, and Molly screws up the paper bags and squashes them into the recycling bin. When she runs some hot water and rinses out the dish cloth so that she can wipe down the table, Sherlock presses the door of the dishwasher shut with his heel and shakes his head.

"Don't worry about that," he says, and he reaches across her to turn the tap off. "I'll sort it out in the morning."

She doubts he will, but her limbs are heavy, her brain drowsy, and she's more than happy to abandon the cloth by the sink, so that he can guide her back to the lounge, his hands on his shoulders.

"Fireworks?" Molly asks, when she catches sight of the TV. She's way past freezing her arse off down by the river just to watch ten minutes of fireworks while carefully avoiding splatters of vomit from people who have overdone it well before midnight. She's way _way_ past climbing the tree outside Temple station to get a good view. She's very happy to settle for a TV in a warm flat where she doesn't have to wear any shoes.

She drops down into Sherlock's armchair while he searches for the remote control, lifting up piles of paper on his desk, opening drawers and slamming them shut. When he turns around, mouth open, ready to complain about Mrs Hudson and _tidying_ , his eyes flick to the mantelpiece, and he strides across the room, snatching the remote and pointing it at the TV.

He perches on the edge of the armchair while he gets the right channel, but slowly slips down the arm and into the seat. It's a bit of a squash, and Molly fidgets, unable to get comfortable with the bulk of his weight pressing her into the other arm of the chair.

"Move your legs," he says, and Molly fixes him with a stare before she relents, lifting her legs so that he can settle down. They end up in an odd, but comfortable enough position, with one of her legs hooked over his, while the other maintains some semblance of normality, her toes resting against the floorboards.

There are only so many aerial shots of Waterloo Bridge that she can watch in the run up to the fireworks, and the commentary is dull as dishwater. Even the clock in the lower left corner doesn't inject any excitement as it counts down to the new year. Sherlock must feel the same, because the next thing she knows, she is woken by a buzzing sound, and she has to give Sherlock a jab before he wakes and croakily answers the phone.

"Lestrade?"

He listens for a short while, humming every now and then to assure Greg that he's still listening.

"Yeah, you're probably right," Sherlock says at last, and then there's a short pause before, "Oh no, not now. Maybe in the morning. Text me."

Molly's eyes focus on the harsh light of the TV, and there's a rerun of a programme from earlier in the week, with a woman in the corner doing sign language. Molly looks across to the clock - quarter past two, no wonder she feels dazed.

"No, get started, and text me an update in the morning," Sherlock says, and then, "All right, I'll speak to you later."

He disconnects the call and drops the phone back onto the arm of the chair.

"Suicide," he says, before Molly can ask. "But the victim has severe arthritis, so couldn't possibly have tied the noose."

"How old?"

"Mid forties. Arthritis at that age uncommon, but not unheard of."

Molly nods, but doesn't further the conversation. She's sure it'll be far more interesting in the morning with a clear head and a fuller report from Greg.

"We missed it," she says, gesturing towards the clock.

"I know," he says, then he reaches out for the TV remote. "I can rewind it if you like."

Molly laughs softly, and Sherlock's hands find hers. Both hands, just for her.

"Happy New Year," he says.

"Happy New Year," she replies,

He kisses her softly on the cheek, his lips grazing her skin. She supposes they could get up, that he could go to bed and she could get a cab home, and undoubtedly they'd be far more comfortable than they are now, squashed in one armchair.

They don't move until Greg's text comes the next morning, and Sherlock tries to cajole her into coming along to Scotland Yard.

"Ten thousand pounds," he says, folding his scarf and looping it round his neck. "I want to make sure I'm getting my money's worth."

Molly rolls her eyes, but she doesn't need convincing.

She never has.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
